Some Things Just Aren't Meant to Be
by Happy Camper27
Summary: And some are. And sometimes, sanity isn't really necessary for a happy life. (Soulmate-AU, not-quite-sane-Harry, dark themes and material, strongly implied and stated abuse)
1. Chapter 1

Harry takes shallow breaths in his little cupboard, trying hard to be small and quiet as his Uncle stomps past in the hall, his steps unsteady and raging, and Harry just knows that his breath is stinking of spirits, hot and rank. His Uncle, he knows, was an angry drunk, throwing things and yelling, and Aunt Petunia is doubtlessly cowering in their room, just as he cowers in his cupboard.

No one is safe from his Uncle's drunken fury.

Finally, his Uncle stomps upstairs, and Harry lets out a tiny sigh of relief. Once his Uncle retreats upstairs he is out of the danger zone; oh, it isn't over, not by a long shot—but at least Harry himself isn't in danger of a horrid beating, with his Uncle breathing in his face with his horrible, reeking breath and yelling abuse in his face.

He listens, waiting for the cries that would signal that his Uncle, rare though it is, has turned his fury on his Aunt instead of him.

They don't come, not that night.

/

Dudley is spoilt and loud, Harry thinks. He is demanding, and _oblivious_ and he sleeps like a log; no matter what, even if his own mother is being attacked brutally in the next room, he sleeps through it.

Not only that, but he looks at the abuser, the attacker, with excited, happy eyes, awaiting praise.

Harry watches his Aunt run her fingers gently along her forearm, where he knows her Mark rests, written in a sloppy hand.

 _Another pint, girl_ , it reads, and Harry wonders how his Uncle had said it. Had he been so very angry and violent back then, snarling the words as he drank himself into a drunken stupor?

Of course, he knows his Uncle's words as well, written in Aunt Petunia's graceful cursive along his Uncle's meaty wrist and the back of his palm. _Get it yourself!_

He wonders whether those words, his Aunt's first words to his Uncle, had been fierce and fiery, sharp and strong. They look it, written as though the writer had been furious and digging the pen into his Uncle's skin with every stroke.

If they had been, he thinks, he sees none of that fire in his Aunt now. She is quiet, and plays the doting mother to his cousin, but her eyes are sharp with carefully hidden fear, and she steps lightly around his Uncle.

She never steps in when his Uncle makes a decision; no matter how sour she is, she doesn't step in, doesn't argue, because arguing means _pain_ , no matter how long it takes for that pain to reach them.

He can't blame her for not stepping in, not really. It's every person for themselves in the Dursley household, no matter how Dudley is oblivious to it and so _stupid_ that he can't see the pain in his own mother and the terror that flashes in her eyes every time his father lifts his meaty fists.

It's every person for themself; that is what he knows.

That is what he knows of a family.

/

Sometimes he thinks to himself that _his_ Mark is the prettiest he sees. He has seen his Aunt's, and his Uncle's, and some of the Marks of others at school, but to him, the smooth dips and curves of his Mark resonate with him and he always thinks to himself _pretty_ whenever he traces the lines.

But he's a boy, and boys don't have _pretty_ things, they have _cool_ things, and so he stays quiet, never speaking of his Mark even when others ask.

He avoids showing it to his Aunt and Uncle, because he knows that it would only make them mad. His Uncle would drink, and would attack in a furious rage, and his Aunt would lash out with sour and bitter words, harsh in their age-old hurt.

His Mark rests delicately on his chest, and always hums with a low _warmth_ that makes him shiver. Sometimes he wonders about the words, though. They are _strange_ words, odd and different, and he thinks that is why his Aunt and Uncle hate them so much, because they are _strange_ and not the very thing they so chase and seek— _normal_.

He runs his finger lightly over the elegant curves of the letters, whispering the words to himself.

 _Avada Kedavra._

/

When the letters start coming, his Uncle is so very _angry,_ and his Aunt is cold, her lips pinching and her eyes burning. He thinks that she is hurting, and wants to reach out and _touch her_ , because her hurt _hurts_ him, nagging at his head. But the hurt is soon swallowed by a fury so old that he wonders if she even realizes that she's forgotten her true reason for feeling it, and she stands aside as his Uncle's fists fly, a glass of scotch sitting innocently on the table.

 _Freak_ , his Uncle snarls. _Abomination!_ He howls as his fists impact with Harry's already-bruised flesh, and Harry bites back his cries and whimpers, knowing that no good would come of crying out. Any attempt to cry wolf, to show what his Uncle did, is shushed away, and no one even whispers of the Potter-boy, tiny and skinny, and the Dursley-wife, pinched and scared.

But this pain, it is something Harry has always known, even if he has learned not to cry out, to not cry wolf. After all, the boy who cried wolf was eaten in the end, and what could he change?

It is all he has ever known, and he thinks that the world is truly a cruel place to be, if all his schoolmates secretly curl over their bruises and broken bones, shuttering away pain into sharp breaths and tense muscles.

When they leave Privet Drive, his breath catches in his chest, and fear pounds in his ears. They go through forests and over bridges, and they even stay in a hotel once.

But the letters keep following, and Harry fears the head that his Uncle's fury is reaching, the puce that his face turns with every new letter.

Silently, he prays to the letter-sender. _Please stop._

The letters don't stop.

And later, he thanks whatever deity watches over him that they didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

Hagrid is huge and bulky, and Harry shies away from touching him at first. Despite the obvious differences, he looks so similar to his Uncle that he can't help himself.

And then those words fall from Hagrid's lips, rough with the giant's accent.

"Yer a wizard, 'Arry."

And everything changes.

/

Diagon Alley is _busy_. There are so many people, and Harry had thought that the people in the Leaky Cauldron were pushy and forward, constantly moving into what little personal space he could muster, but these people are so much more so; they push and laugh and grin, but they shove and hit, and Harry knows he is shying away but he can't help himself.

He shudders at the thought of his Uncle finding out that Harry, however unintentionally, has cried wolf. The pain would be unbearable, he just knows.

But they are pushing and harsh and they _nag_ at his head, and he bites his lip. He doesn't want them to hurt— _hurt_ is _bad_ , and he can make _his_ pain vanish, why can't he make theirs vanish?—but he doesn't want to reach out, to pull the pain because the pain will _hurt_ and it will only make _Harry_ hurt instead. And he knows that in the end, _Harry_ was Harry's first priority, and the rest of the world second.

And when Hagrid asks if Harry is _happy_ , Harry aims a ( _fake_ ) smile up to the giant and says, brightly, "Why wouldn't I be? This is amazing!"

It satisfies the man, and his bright beetle eyes shine as he shows Harry around Diagon Alley. Harry is content to follow Hagrid around, letting himself be led like his cousin has been so many times before.

Ollivanders, Harry thinks, is far too creepy and far too knowing. Every time the old man had reached forward and Harry had flinched away from contact, Ollivander had looked at him so pityingly, and his silver eyes had been sad.

It makes no sense, and as Hagrid returns Harry to Privet Drive, Harry puts it out of his mind, preparing to handle the pain he knows will be forthcoming.

He isn't wrong; the moment Hagrid turns his back, his Uncle is on him, breath hot and rank, and Harry bites his lip, refusing to cry wolf.

He's not like his Aunt Petunia once was, or might have been. He doesn't have fire, or if he did it's long since been snuffed out by his Uncle's fists and rage.

His Mark flares hotly that night, and he shudders in his little cupboard. Dudley's other room still has all of Harry's things, but his Uncle has forgotten or is just so furious that he couldn't stand it, and Harry had been shoved into the only safety he has known for eleven years.

It isn't so bad, but Harry brings up a hand to clutch at his shirt where his Mark is burning so hotly.

The cries _do_ come, that night.

/

The Hogwarts Express is, Harry thinks, very bright. It suits this new world, this place of wonder, to have something so brilliant and shining to introduce new students, but he is hesitant to board.

In the end, it is the threat of what is waiting for him if he turns back that pushes him aboard.

This new world has to be better, has to be safer.

Ronald Weasley is odd, and as Harry shows the red-head his scar, the scar that his Uncle had hurt him over so many times in the past, the scar that his Aunt hates and verbally attacks him for having, he can't help but be stunned by the awe that shines in Ron's eyes. There is something else, something quiet and dark behind the awe, but Harry ignores it because maybe, just _maybe_ , he's found somewhere where he won't _hurt_.

/

When the Sorting Hat murmurs _you could be great, you know; Slytherin will help you there,_ Harry freezes. He may not have grown up here, in this nonsensical world, but he knows that there is a bias, a horrible bias against these Slytherins, and he can tell what will happen if he lands in the green-and-silver house.

He has to play the games of these people, just like he plays his Uncle's game and doesn't cry wolf. He'll be the Alice to the Wizarding World's Wonderland, but _better_ , because he'll play along and play their game by _their_ rules because Harry doesn't know any.

The Hat sighs in his ears, and Harry can tell it knows just what he is thinking. _Not everyone is like that, child,_ it whispers, but Harry has no chance to reply, as the next moment the Hat is crying out to the Hall.

"Gryffindor!"

The red-and-gold house claps, and Harry joins them, letting what little he knows of laughter flood to his face.

He'll play their game; he'll be Alice here, just like he tries not to be the boy-who-cried-wolf at the Dursleys.

/

Ron is tactless. He speaks without thinking, saying things that Harry mouths alongside him, watching with hidden care. His words are hurtful and painful, and Harry can do nothing against them, because the pain they cause isn't _his_ and the thought of touching someone else makes him both shudder and crave the contact.

Their professors are, by turns, sharp, stern, cheerful, fearful, and so very horribly _bitter_. The bitter-Professor snaps his words at Harry, and the bile Harry can almost taste in them makes him suppress a horrifying ripple of disgust.

Ron hisses under his breath about unfairness, and the bitter-Professor snarls about him being so very arrogant, and Harry knows that he really hasn't found a place for him.

They are different from the Dursleys, but they are very much the same too.

But a game is a game, and he plays along, letting them lead him by the nose. When Halloween rolls around, and Ron's tactlessness sends a girl crying, Harry feels a wave of disgust, but he doesn't say a word. Attracting attention to himself instead of letting the red-head send his poison out to the rest of the world would only bring pain, and Harry doesn't want _pain_.

Then the scared-Professor dashes in during a feast—a feast, celebrating on a day that Harry had an entire prospective future ripped away from him—screaming about a troll, troll in the dungeons.

And Harry knows that he has to play along, that if he leaves the crying-girl, some of the rose-tint will fall away from the others eyes, because he wouldn't be playing brave-Alice, but scared-Harry. And he has to be brave-Alice here, so he goes looking for the crying-girl and finds her, and the troll.

It is very scary, and Harry wants nothing more than the comforting darkness of his cupboard and the knowledge that if he just breaths quietly and holds so very still, he might escape pain. But that is scared-Harry, so he forces himself to keep playing the role of brave-Alice, and fights the troll and saves the crying-girl.

The Professors are angry and scared by turns, but no one lashes out at Harry, so Harry knows he's played his part well, that no one saw the scared-Harry beneath the brave-Alice.

/

He plays along all year, letting his two 'friends' drag him alongside them into all sorts of trouble, and playing the part of brave-Alice. There is a three-headed dog, and a flying lesson that leaves Harry breathless and both terrified and in awe. He loves the feeling of wind through his hair, but the openness makes him feel so _exposed._

Then comes the enforced search for Nicholas Flamel, leading them to the Philosopher's Stone, and Harry wants to shake and curl up under a table. But he continues, and the role of brave-Alice seems nearly second nature by now.

The Quidditch match that nearly kills him almost makes him say _no more, I can't be Alice!_ But he doesn't let himself say that. Because saying that would be _bad_ , and Harry knows all to well what happens to bad people.

He hasn't seen any bruises on Ron or Hermione or Seamus or Dean or Neville, but he thinks it's only a matter of time. After all, this world is so very cruel, and Harry surely can't be the _only bad one_ , right? But after a while, he starts to wonder if he really is the _only bad one_ , because even as the bruises fade he can feel the pressure and pain of playing brave-Alice pressing in on him, crushing scared-Harry away into a little corner as brave-Alice chases after Quirrell, facing death in the face and ignoring the hot flare of the Mark across their chest, spitting in Voldemort's face.

When Harry wakes up, though, brave-Alice is hovering just below the surface, and the role speaks up to Dumbledore, and the twinkling Headmaster explains all that had happened. But when the old man is gone, and Madame Pomfrey is satisfied, scared-Harry pulls forward, and brave-Alice retreats, the mask being placed on its shelf for a moment.

 _Avada Kedavra._

Those words, the words he had known as long as he had been able to read, had _killed his parents._ They had very nearly _killed him_. And he knows, just knows, that he is like his Aunt and Uncle. He won't ever have the happily-ever-after the girls are always whispering about, that Ron has been promised with his Mark-match, a brunette called Lavender.

Some Mark-matches aren't meant to be.

Scared-Harry and mad-Voldemort is one of those.

The tears, Harry discovers, are hot and painful, and when the brave-Alice mask slips back into place, the tears are still falling down scared-Harry's face.

It really did _hurt_.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry sighs. This summer has been one of the worst. Upon arriving back in London, his Uncle had only just managed to wait until they had returned to Number 4, Privet Drive, to begin his raging.

"Freaks!" he had snarled, face turning an odd shade of red. "Bringing their freakishness and danger to my family!"

The brave-Alice mask bristles with indignation, but boy-who-won't-cry-wolf steps forward, pushing scared-Harry to the back. Brave-Alice glowers from his shelf, and scared-Harry watches the glowering mask quietly.

 _Why don't you protect yourself?_ The mask demands, because that is the personality of brave-Alice.

 _I do,_ scared-Harry responds. _I have you, and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf_.

 _That's not enough,_ the mask, the persona, snarls.

 _Isn't it?_ Scared-Harry asks, and curls back in on himself as the reverberations of the pain his-their Uncle is inflicting upon him-them reach him. Brave-Alice growls, but backs down, and soon boy-who-won't-cry-wolf is back, and pushing scared-Harry to the forefront.

The pain is shaking and horrible, but Harry bites his lip, drawing the metallic flavor of blood into his mouth. Boy-who-won't-cry-wolf shakes in the back of his head, cold and stoic and his mouth sewn shut, _pulling_ at the pain.

There's not a lot they can do about _anything_ , really.

/

Dudley laughs horribly, placing his cards down. His friend, Piers, groans.

"You're too good at this," he grumbles, putting away his own cards. It is a game that Dudley started playing while Harry was at Hogwarts—Duel Monsters, Harry thinks it's called. But Dudley isn't very good at it, Harry thinks. He only takes monsters that are strong and high-level, and casts away the traps and magic cards and lower-level monsters like so much trash.

One night, Harry sneaks some of the cards that Dudley has thrown away into his oversized shirt, hiding them so that his Uncle doesn't see.

Later, Harry pulls out the cards, and thinks that maybe there's a pull there, like boy-who-won't-cry-wolf pulls at scared-Harry's pain. Some feel warmer to Harry, like when the Mark flares warmly, and others are icy-cold. He finds one, pulling more strongly at him, and he wonders why his cousin tossed this one away—despite his cousin's taste for attack over defense, he would likely keep this one, right? It _did_ have fifteen-hundred defense points. Then he reads the name.

 _Dharc the Dark Charmer_.

And then it makes sense.

Magic. Dudley, raised by his parents to be nearly magic-phobic, would naturally toss away any and all spellcaster cards, urged on by his parents and their sour, bitter fury and jealousy. He stares at the picture a moment, wondering at it. It is filled with magic and darkness, and brave-Alice hisses from the back, muttering about _Dark Arts_ and _evil_ , but that is brave-Alice, not scared-Harry.

He hides the cards under his creaky and rickety bed, and holds his breath as his Uncle comes lumbering past his door, steps heavy. He breaths a sigh of relief as there is no pounding at the door, and his Uncle passes by, leaving Harry alone.

Hedwig stares at him, amber eyes sharp and clear, and she hoots softly, nipping gently at the bars of her cage. Harry looks at her quietly, and he thinks that maybe brave-Alice and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf are looking through his eyes too, because Hedwig seems to almost sigh, and brave-Alice nearly preens about how smart their owl is.

Harry tucks himself under his covers, and tries not to think about the coming days.

The summer, he thinks, will take a long time.

/

He listens in surreptitiously when Dudley is playing his games with friends, and wonders if Dudley realizes that the cards—while most certainly not truly alive in a traditional sense—have a _pull_ to them, a sort of _aliveness_ that Harry is hard pressed to explain.

His Mark flares hotly on his chest, and Harry winces. There is a big dinner party tonight, and he has to be in his room, with nothing but a few pieces of bread and Hedwig for company, until tomorrow, without a sound.

He sneaks more of the cards from Dudley's latest booster pack, and resolves to look at them later.

Unfortunately, there isn't a later, as when he is just getting ready to pull out the cards, there is a _crack_ , and a strange creature is sitting on his bed with luminous green eyes.

"Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!" it cries, and scared-Harry lets brave-Alice slip forward, the mask sliding on like second nature. Brave-Alice reacts, and soon the House Elf is gone, and scared-Harry is being pushed forward, and then abruptly yanked back as his Uncle slams his way into the room.

He spares a thought to thank any deity out there that he has already hidden the cards as boy-who-won't-cry-wolf curls up and waits, letting their Uncle take out his fury. Hedwig shifts, but stays quiet, and scared-Harry feels a sense of relief. Brave-Alice would be mad if Hedwig were hurt, and he doesn't think he can keep the persona back if brave-Alice really does get mad.

His-their uncle leaves him-them broken and bruised on their floor, uncaring if Dudley were to walk by and see them. Scared-Harry thinks, rather morbidly, that if he did, he would get a few kicks in at his-their expense.

But boy-who-won't-cry-wolf is _pulling_ , and scared-Harry lets the ever-silent persona push him into oblivion.

It is quiet, at least.

/

The bars, Harry thinks, are a bit much. They are bright and red and fit in with the tall-tales his relatives have told about him being a delinquent. After all, if he's a troublemaker, why not keep him from sneaking out the window? It makes sense, doesn't it?

But Harry is skinny and tired and fragile, and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf and brave-Alice don't know how to cope. He wants to go to Diagon Alley, to escape into the nonsensical world of magic, if only for a little bit, but they can't. But showing pain, showing misery, will only make his-their Uncle happy, and brave-Alice refuses to let the one he sees as an enemy win in such a way.

So scared-Harry crafts another mask, different from brave-Alice and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf. This one is hopeful and cheerful, never letting anything get him down, so very unlike scared-Harry.

He slips into the new mask, and wonders if his Uncle will be able to tell the difference between scared-Harry and this new mask, this cheerful adventurous one. Brave-Alice mutters, and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf stares as bright-Aladdin shows up, his smile bright and strong in scared-Harry's mind.

And then the bars are gone and there is a flying car and there are Weasley's outside his window, and brave-Alice steps forward, getting their trunk and Hedwig, and stuffing the cards into their trousers.

And soon, they are soaring away, and bright-Aladdin is laughing while scared-Harry and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf watch on with silent eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

It is only the night before they leave for Hogwarts that Harry—scared-Harry, not bright-Aladdin or brave-Alice—has the chance to breathe, and look over the cards once again. Dharc is still there, and the sort-of-pull makes Harry shiver. There are so many magic cards and traps mixed in, that Harry only really comes across three other monsters.

 _Lyna the Light Charmer_ has a similar sort-of-pull that Dharc does, and brave-Alice mutters lowly and tries to push forward, but scared-Harry holds firm. He will be out for this little while, and it is a welcome breath of fresh air for him. Brave-Alice pulls away, and scared-Harry thinks that the persona is maybe-sulking. It's sometimes hard to tell, with brave-Alice.

 _A Cat of Ill Omen_ and _An Owl of Luck_ make him laugh, and Hedwig hoots lowly from where she is perched, and Harry flips the card around and shows it to her. He hopes she finds the humor in it, and she churrs lowly, and Harry smiles.

"I thought you might find it funny," he muses, and he stores the cards carefully in his trunk. He may not be playing the game, even if merely for the lack of a proper deck and no understanding of the rules, but the cards pull at him, and he can't bring himself to let go of the maybe-sentient cards.

It really is all very strange.

/

Harry had hoped that he could simply board the Hogwarts Express and enjoy the ride, letting Hermione and Ron talk themselves into oblivion. But the barrier is closed, and he and Ron are trapped in Muggle London, and Ron has the bright idea of taking the flying car to Hogwarts. Brave-Alice pushes forward, and agrees, and scared-Harry and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf both shiver as they soar high in the sky.

It is a _bad idea_ , and scared-Harry is tempted to shove brave-Alice away, taking off the mask, but that also smacks of _bad idea,_ and they're already committed. When they finally arrive at the school, it is disastrous, and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf _pulls_ the pain away, the souvenirs of their crash with the so-called Whomping Willow.

They are almost expelled, but bright-Aladdin slips on, and scared-Harry stays in his little corner. The ever-cheerful persona keeps everyone relatively calm, and soon their eyes are sliding shut, even as brave-Alice hisses about _fools_ and _bastards_. Brave-Alice isn't very nice sometimes, Harry knows, but the mask's emotions towards the Potions Master are potent and vicious.

/

Lockhart, Harry decides, is an utter fool. A fop, and annoying while being so very foppish and vain, out of all of them, bright-Aladdin and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf are the only ones who can stand him for any length of time, and scared-Harry isn't really sure if boy-who-won't-cry-wolf can really stand _anybody_ , but then again, boy-who-won't-cry-wolf's mouth is sewn shut, and sometimes he forcefully blinds and deafens himself, because sometimes the pain is all boy-who-won't-cry-wolf can handle.

The incident with the Dueling Club merely reinforces this impression, and when Malfoy sends forth his snake, Harry can hear it hissing in such irritation and it nags at him, pulling at his head.

He steps forward, and reaches forward, and it isn't brave-Alice or bright-Aladdin who speaks, but little scared-Harry. It makes him nervous, but he is better with animals than people, and he _speaks_ to the snake, whispering gentle words even as boy-who-won't-cry-wolf peers forward, ready to _pull_ away any pain.

The whispers that follow him afterwards are nasty and malicious, and brave-Alice mutters mutinously from its shelf, and bright-Aladdin finds him-itself worn so much more as the days grow colder and the storms close in.

After the incident on Halloween, once again, with Harry finding the caretaker's cat petrified, everyone has been scared, but now they have someone to focus on, to take their fury out on. Boy-who-won't-cry-wolf finds himself _pulling_ so much those months, and Harry can't help but hide behind his curtains at night, ignoring the icy-cold pulses from his Mark and looking at the cards.

Sometimes, he thinks, the cards _pulse_ with warmth, and sometimes he thinks he can see flickers of darkness at the edge of his vision. It scares him, a bit, and brave-Alice pushes him to put the cards away when this happens.

But, nevertheless, Harry keeps them with him. They are warm and _pulling_ , and sometimes his not-all-there mind is pulled back to them when he's wandering off form his corner, leaving brave-Alice and bright-Aladdin to manage the outside world.

Sometimes he thinks about just wandering off and never coming back, losing himself in the dark recesses within his mind.

Sometimes it is so very tempting that it is only the masks, tugging at him, and Hedwig and the cards that pull him away.

/

It _hurts_ , Harry registers blankly. His Mark is burning with icy-cold, and the form of a sixteen year-old Lord Voldemort-slash-Tom Riddle stares at him with chill eyes.

" _Speak to me, greatest of the Hogwarts Four_ ," the shade _speaks_ , and scared-Harry feels a thrill of terror flicker through him, and brave-Alice pushes forward.

The Basilisk is terrifying, and not even Fawkes' warm song stops the chills running down Harry's spine. But Ginny is so _still_ and so _cold_ , lying there on the stone floor and in the stinking water and slime, and brave-Alice shoves scared-Harry into his corner, and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf _pulls_ their pain away.

In retrospect, he really should have figured out that something big would be happening; so many petrifications, so much pain, and Harry was still so blind that it was only Hermione's bright-brilliance that solved the puzzle.

And then the Basilisk is dead, and the venom is burning in his veins, and the younger version of his maybe-Mark-match is gloating coldly, eyes madmad _mad_.

He takes the fang, pulls it loose from his own arm, and stabs it into the diary that had pulled Ginny into this dark and dank place that stinks of decay and stagnation. The stench is awful, and the shade _screams_ and fades away in bursts of painful light.

Brave-Alice hisses in victory, and bright-Aladdin pushes his way forward as Ginny wakes up. The venom is painpain _pain_ , like fire and ice all at the same time, and then Fawkes is there, all sadness and worry and tears, and the fire and ice are chased around, and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf shrieks inside as the venom is neutralized so very _painfully_. Boy-who-won't-cry-wolf blinds himself and deafens himself, rocking on the floor of their little space, and brave-Alice sighs and pushes forward, bright-Aladdin not far behind.

His-their Mark _burns_ , and scared-Harry looks off into the darkness of his-their mind. It's not too clear anymore which it is, though. His, theirs—did it even matter?

He is so very tempted to wander off, to lose himself, but boy-who-won't-cry-wolf is thrashing, and they are flying, Fawkes carrying them all so elegantly.

/

He really doesn't like Lucius Malfoy, Harry decides. The man is pompous and hateful and bigoted, and reminds him horribly of his puffed-up brat of a son, Draco. Or maybe it's the other way round, with Draco reminding Harry of Lucius. It doesn't really matter, though, because they're both hateful and mean, just another reason why this nonsensical world really isn't too much better than the Dursleys. But it's better, and he'll take what he can get.

But the arrogant, furious man attacks Harry, and the _words_ that nearly come out of the man's mouth make Harry's chest ache and his Mark flare hotly.

 _Avada Kedavra_.

The Killing Curse.

Even now, the thought that he is tied with the murderer of his parents makes Harry both sick and angry, and he tries not to wonder how they might have been had the murderer not gone mad, not gone in search of something he could never have.

What sort of Mark-matches would they have been? He doesn't think they would be romantic, and Harry isn't even sure he knows _how_ to love. The only expressions of love he's ever known are his Aunt and Uncle's hateful matching, all rage and hate and fury that morphed from a clashing and from what might once have been 'love' and the claustrophobic love that his Aunt and Uncle smother his cousin with.

But either way, Harry doesn't think that they are really Mark-matches anymore, and the Mark burns against Harry's chest. Perhaps, in a once-future that is now gone, they could have met, could have known why they were Mark-matches, but now all that is left is a madman intent on something that he could never have and Harry, whatever he is in his not-quite-there-ness.

Perhaps, in that once-future, they wouldn't have been broken, been shattered apart like they have, but now Harry just knows that there is no way out. That once-future is shattered like fragile crystal, and Harry turns his back on it, knowing that there is nothing he can do about it.

It still burns him, inside and out, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note: I am participating in NaNoWriMo this year (November 2015), so when I can I'll be uploading. Of course, given that will let me upload docs... -_-'**

 **Thankfully, however, I do have pre-written chapters done. If you would like to read ahead of the updates here on , the version that is on AO3 under my penname _HappyCamper27_ is up to date with 10 chapters.**

 **/**

The ride back from Hogwarts is dull and quiet, and Ron and Hermione seem to understand that he-they can't take any more noise or stress for a while. Hermione is worrying, and Ron watches them with both gratitude and concern, for they have both only known brave-Alice, not scared-Harry.

When he is picked up by his Uncle, Hermione hugs him tightly, and then whispers in his ear, "Owl me if you need anything, Harry."

It is appreciated, but boy-who-won't-cry-wolf stirs for the first time since the venom, and Harry just smiles, thanking her before he is pulled away by his Uncle.

The ride back to Privet Drive is filled with his Uncle's harsh derisions, and Harry shuts his eyes and slips bright-Aladdin forward, his unbending cheer providing a needed shield from his Uncle's poisonous words.

The atmosphere is tense in the house, that night, even as his Aunt chatters on about the newest members of the neighborhood, a family moving in at Number 6. Apparently, the father of the family was an archeologist, or so the gossip went, and his son was _defective_ , at least in their words.

Harry tilts his head, and wonders if his Aunt considers him _defective_. But then again, she is so very jealous and furious and sad and considering him _defective_ would be a point of explanation, of rationalization. He isn't sure if she does that in that fashion, though.

That night, there is _pain._

His Uncle is angry, and Harry curls in on himself, shaking even as his bones burn and his Mark flares with white-hot heat and his Uncle takes his belt to Harry's back.

Boy-who-won't-cry-wolf is shaking and trembling, even as the persona is being worn, because it is all _too much_ and he is still recovering from the venom and tears.

He-they don't get much sleep that night.

/

"Hello?"

The voice is soft. Harry starts from where he was sitting, hiding in the tall grasses from Dudley's gang of thugs. It is a slim white-haired boy with soft brown eyes.

"Can you tell me how I can get to Privet Drive from here?" he asks, and Harry tilts his head, not sure how to respond. He doesn't want to go back, just yet, but he isn't sure if he can just tell directions.

In the end, bright-Aladdin pushes forward, smiling brightly.

"Sure! Come on, it's this way," he says easily. "I live there, and I'd best be getting back soon anyway. So, why d'you want to get to Privet Drive? Not a whole lot there," the persona chatters.

"My father recently rented a house there," the boy says quietly. "I'm very sorry, I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Ryou Bakura,"

"Harry," bright-Aladdin introduces without missing a beat, but the words _bright-Aladdin_ linger in his-their mouth like a sour aftertaste.

"Thank you," Bakura thanks, smiling. "It would have taken me so long to get here on my own."

They are standing on the sidewalk, just far enough away from Number 4 that bright-Aladdin feels comfortable enough to still be talking to Bakura.

"No problem," bright-Aladdin laughs, and Bakura nods, turning away and towards Number 6. Bright-Aladdin watches him go, and they are all watching through the same eyes, and finally scared-Harry murmurs, retreating back to his corner, _he's got a pull._

Brave-Alice grumbles. _Like those cards?_

Boy-who-won't-cry-wolf watches them, ever-silent. Bright-Aladdin keeps smiling, and together they walk into the personal hell that they've always known.

/

When they see each other again, Harry is nursing the bruises of the latest painful night. Bakura is very polite, but also _nervous_ , and his smiles are tight.

They talk, and eventually Harry lets it slip that he has some cards from the Duel Monsters game but doesn't know how to play. Bakura half perks-up half crumbles in on himself, as though knowing that something is coming that he can't stop.

"I can show you how to play," he offers, and Harry shrugs.

"I don't have that many cards," Harry murmurs.

"I can still show you, right?"

And that is the end of that.

/

Bakura is…different when he plays, Harry notices. His eyes light up, and Harry knows he loves the games. But sometimes it isn't Bakura showing him how to play, it's someone else in his body. He thinks it's kind of like how he can be Harry, except not scared-Harry but brave-Alice or bright-Aladdin.

Not-Bakura is odd and harsh, and he eyes Harry with hungry looks. But every time he invites Harry to play, or Bakura invites Harry to play, he demurs, saying that he doesn't have a full deck and only about four or five monsters.

It is Harry's birthday, the 31st of July, when Bakura apparently almost gets tired of his refusals, because the soft-spoken boy takes him to a game shop and buys Harry a starter pack and several booster packs.

Harry stares at the cards, and Bakura nudges him.

"Are you going to open them?" he asks quietly, and Harry looks at him.

"Thank you," he thanks, and Bakura blinks. "This is the best birthday present I've ever gotten." And in that moment, it's not bright-Aladdin speaking, or the intense tones of brave-Alice or the quiet of boy-who-won't-cry-wolf. It is scared-Harry speaking, showing himself to this new maybe-friend.

Bakura reddens. "Really? It's not very much, really."

"It is," Harry murmurs easily, and bright-Aladdin laughs. They open the packs, and soon Bakura and not-Bakura are coaching them on how to build a deck. They might have played that day, but it is getting late and Harry has to get back before his Uncle gets mad and decides to take out his anger on Harry.

They agree to meet the day after the end of his Aunt Marge's stay so that Harry can play and begin to practice, but things spiral out of control and Harry storms away from Privet Drive, brave-Alice leading them away into the darkness.

It isn't until the next summer that they return to the neighborhood, and by then Number 6 is empty.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry blinks at the portly man in front of him. Brave-Alice is speaking, but the man doesn't seem to really be listening. His lime-green bowler hat gleams fluorescently in the low light, even as he restricts them with a few words. Brave-Alice restrains a few choice words, but soon the man is gone and Harry stows his things away.

He takes a moment to look over the gifts that Ron and Hermione had sent him for his birthday, alongside the food that Mrs. Weasley had sent and Hagrid's dangerous book. Bakura's gift of a proper deck rests comfortingly in one of his oversized pockets.

Each persona takes interest in different gifts—brave-Alice is attracted to Hagrid's violent book, still bound with a belt. Bright-Aladdin enjoys Ron and Hermione's gifts, and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf looks at the food Mrs. Weasley had sent and his stomach growls lowly.

Soon, though, he-they are tired out, and he-they lie back in the bed, feeling the odd softness that he-they are so unused to. It makes it difficult to fall asleep, though a doze falls over them almost immediately.

The next days are a mixture of freedom and being caged. Brave-Alice chafes at not being _allowed_ to leave Diagon Alley, and wonders when anyone will explain _anything_. Harry just enjoys the magic of the Alley, and even wanders off down Knockturn Alley once or twice. After the third attempted kidnapping, Harry starts to realize that brave-Alice and bright-Aladdin won't be able to help him in that dark place, as they are too bright, and both boy-who-won't-cry-wolf and scared-Harry are non-combatants.

As Harry starts fashioning the mannerisms of what he thinks may be the last of his masks—though he may be wrong—his-their Mark flares with white-hot rage. When Harry slips into the new role, he is surprised how easily the chilly rage and hate come to him, how the sly mannerisms come to him-them like breathing. Brave-Alice grumbles, but scared-Harry ignores the persona.

And for a time, it is quiet.

/

When Arthur Weasley tells Harry of the fact that Sirius Black is out to kill him, Harry just wonders _why_. Because Voldemort has a reason, at least. This new man? What is his reason?

But everyone's fear and worry is too much and nags at his head, and he acquiesces to the patriarch's desires, even as brave-Alice growls in the back of his head and he can feel sly-cold-hating-snake smirk coldly beside the decidedly Gryffindor persona, and brave-Alice almost hisses at the other.

And so they board the train, prepared for a quiet trip to Hogwarts. Harry thinks they should have expected what happens.

Dementors spread their chill like mint invades a garden, persistent and unrelenting. A scream rings in Harry's ears, high and piercing. They are all being pushed around, none quite sure who should be playing 'Harry', and then everything goes black and scared-Harry stares at the others from his corner.

He is scared. But what is new about that?

/

Hermione is worried, Harry knows. But she also stinks of exhaustion and places-that-aren't or places-they-haven't-been. It makes him tilt his head, even as brave-Alice speaks so confidently to her.

She does some things that are unwise, and soon brave-Alice is fuming, but bright-Aladdin steps forward in the other's absence, and they all seem almost _confused_ at how calm and easy going he is all-of-a-sudden, because brave-Alice isn't easy-going but sharp and intent.

But no one says anything, and soon Hermione is so caught up in the mountains of homework she has that she can't do more than give passing glances at Harry.

Her cat, Crookshanks, is quiet and calm and clever, and Harry is oddly reminded of _A Cat of Ill Omen_ , just like Hedwig almost reminds him of _An Owl of Luck_. He feels a tug of a smile at his lips as he watches the tabby push into Hermione's face, refusing to let the exhausted girl study any further.

It is oddly sweet, Harry thinks.

/

When Harry finds out that the murderer, Sirius Black, is the reason they were placed with the Dursleys, brave-Alice hisses and sly-cold-hating-snake bristles. When Harry finds out that Sirius Black is his _godfather_ , brave-Alice is silent, but sly-cold-hating-snake explodes viciously, raging and killing-intent.

In the push that follows, scared-Harry ends up speaking to a worried Ron and Hermione, until sly-cold-hating-snake steps forward and turns their sadness into fury.

"I'll _kill him_ ," sly-cold-hating-snake hisses, and Ron and Hermione take a step back. "When he finds me, I'll _kill him!_ "

And that, for a time, is the end of that.

/

The end of the year flies by so quickly that scared-Harry has difficulty understanding it.

There is Sirius Black, the once-murderer-but-not, and Professor Lupin, who taught him to defend himself against Dementors but is a _werewolf_ , and there is Ron's rat, Scabbers, who turns out to be the rea-murderer, Peter Pettigrew.

Then there is Snape and Ron and Hermione and Dementors and fear and terror and _hate_ , and by the next day Harry is struggling to keep back sly-cold-hating-snake but is losing the will to do so. If he loses that last piece of his family, he doesn't know what will happen.

Vaguely, he notes that bright-Aladdin looks worn around the edges, but dismisses it even as scared-Harry retreats into the dark recesses of his-their mind.

And then Hermione drags them back through time, and suddenly things-that-aren't and places-they-haven't-been make _sense_ and the time-magic woven around them makes him _itch_.

Dodging a werewolf, saving a hippogriff, and fighting off what must be _hundreds_ of Dementors is _hard_ , and brave-Alice is winded once it is done, even as sly-cold-hating-snake growls as he thinks of the rat, Wormtail.

It is all so very thoroughly exhausting.

/

The train ride back to London, back to the Dursleys, is far more _wrenching_ than it has been any other year. Because now he has a _godfather_ , and the knowledge that his-their once-escape is now nonviable because the Minister is so very _dense_ and _buries-his-head-in-the-sand_ grates and hurts.

When they finally arrive, Harry is slow to unload from the train, despite the _pain_ he knows it will bring if he is even the slightest bit late. Ron and Hermione are worried, so worried, and even as Ron is tugged off to the side by his Mark-match, Hermione _hugs_ Harry.

"If you ever need anything," she says carefully. "I'll be there Harry."

"Thank you," he-they say, and Hermione looks into his eyes cautiously.

"I mean it," she says, and then she is gone, following her parents into Muggle London.

Harry wants to linger, but he knows that much longer and not even an excuse from bright-Aladdin will prevent any cries and pain tonight.

He has to go, and it _hurts_.

And then he remembers that he has a convict-godfather, as much as that hurts. And maybe, just maybe, sly-cold-hateful-snake can hold that over his Uncle's head.

For once, he thinks that he may have a pain-free summer.

It is an odd thought.


	7. Chapter 7

For once, his summer is quiet. His Uncle leaves him alone, and his Aunt's lips are pursed and thin, though no words leave her lips. Harry luxuriates in the sensation of being with his relatives, but not being in pain. It is a fascinating sensation.

And then come the dreams, and Harry finds he can't sleep. The dreams are sickly sweet with terror and a seductive sort of _pull_ , and it makes him shudder. His Mark is always hot on his skin these days, burning him like a brand.

The tension is growing more and more, and Harry fears the threat of his convict-godfather won't be enough to stave off his Uncle's fury much longer. And then comes Ron's invitation, like a blessed wind, rescuing them from the growing prison.

He wonders if he's just imagining the heat that glows from the cards in his pocket every time his Uncle steps close; the heat is soft and gentle, where the heat from his Mark is burning and painful, and he finds himself quietly laying them out some nights, brave-Alice and boy-who-won't-cry-wolf and weary-bright-Aladdin all so very silent in the back of his mind. Sly-cold-hateful-snake is never quiet, though, and the chilly hisses in the back of his mind make him want to just bury himself away from the mask's hate and rage.

But sly-cold-hateful-snake is strong, and always present, and always muttering in his ears. And the rage is powerful, and wearing the mask makes him feel strong, and he _can't stop himself_ sometimes.

It is luring and addictive.

It scares him.

/

The Quidditch World Cup is amazing and incredible. Brave-Alice is forward, the intense persona sharp and strong as they watch the graceful movements of the players in the air.

Weary-bright-Aladdin is soft now, the mask very light in scared-Harry's hands. The persona is still so very _bright_ , but the light seems to be almost _faded_.

Scared-Harry pushes the thought away, resolving not to think about it.

Sly-cold-hateful-snake snickers lowly as the Death Eaters attack, and scared-Harry is so very glad that brave-Alice is speaking, because he can't help the encompassing shudder that wracks his tiny frame.

/

The dreams are getting worse, Harry knows. They are still so very sickly sweet with terror and fear and that seductive sort of _pull_ , but there is more to them, more pain and green and death, and he's hearing those _words_ over and over again, like a mockery of what he knows.

 _Avada Kedavra_ echoes in his ears again and again, and sly-cold-hateful-snake laughs coolly, and Harry shivers, covered in sweat. The raging persona is terrifying. But it-he is also so strong that Harry just wants to cling and hold on for dear life.

When sly-cold-hateful-snake pushes him away and forward, scared-Harry stiffens. _Oh, don't mind me,_ sly-cold-hateful-snake murmurs, and scared-Harry can almost _hear_ the smirk in it-his voice. _You can handle it, can't you?_

Harry shivers as he sits on his bed, trembling violently. It _hurts_. It hurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurts _hurts—_

He retreats, fleeing past the laughingly taunting form of sly-cold-hateful-snake, fleeing into the all-encompassing darkness in his-their mind.

He isn't sure how long he hides there, but eventually the almost-faded form of weary-bright-Aladdin finds him, smile still eternally etched into his face.

 _It'll all be alright_ , weary-bright-Aladdin says, but the words are hollow, almost-fake. _Everything will be alright._

Scared-Harry stares at him, and then weary-bright-Aladdin is reaching out and pulling him back and away, back to the center where there is light.

He doesn't want to go back, not really.

But he doesn't think he has much of a choice, and weary-bright-Aladdin looks so hollow-empty-fake that he can't bring himself to resist. He wonders if the persona will just _fade away_ , like smoke in the wind, or dust crumbling away like reminders of a once-great kingdom of the long-distant past. A mask is gently placed in scared-Harry's thought-formed hands.

 _Everything will be alright_ , the persona assures him once more, and scared-Harry tilts his head, and the ever-present tension in his chest tightens just that little bit more.

 _Don't fade_ , scared-Harry whispers, and weary-bright-Aladdin laughs a hollow-empty-fake laugh.

 _Sometimes,_ he-it says, _there is no choice._

The words taste like ash and cinders in scared-Harry's mouth.

/

Soon, soon it is time to board the Hogwarts Express once more. The brilliant scarlet steam-engine train is loud and powerful, and the crowds are harsh and closing in and filled with crying parents and awkward children, and it has never felt quite so much like home to Harry.

This is where he-they belong, he thinks, hand coming up unconsciously to grip where his Mark rests, flaring in heated displeasure.

The magic and wonder that surround him-them makes his-their heart pound, and he can't help the small, joyous smile that makes its way to his lips. Even sly-cold-hateful-snake is quiet for a moment, soaking in the pure _wonder_ of the moment in contrast to the bleak, torturous monotony of Privet Drive.

And then brave-Alice is pushing forward, the Weasleys loud and bright as they crowd forward into the platform, and Ron and Hermione are on either side of him-them.

It is pure and wonderful and incredible and magnificent and so very much _home_ that scared-Harry chokes back hot, painful tears in his little corner of his-their mind, and brave-Alice, in his-its sharp intense way, is smiling and joyous.

Weary-bright-Aladdin is even smiling a smile that is less hollow-empty-fake and more true-real-full than anything he has worn for a good while.

And so, they walk forward, boarding the train that would take them deep into the heart of the wondrous magic of Hogwarts that had burrowed its way into their shared-heart.

It is a moment that even sly-cold-hateful-snake doesn't wish to sour with his horrible, strong, alluring words.

 _Amazing,_ Harry thinks, stepping onto the train so very steeped in magic. _Absolutely amazing._

And it is.


End file.
